The Shape of Snakes
by MQ1
Summary: Everybody has their limits. Minerva McGonagall is no exception.


**The Shape of Snakes**

By: Minniequill

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**Author's notes: **I wrote this about two years ago and promptly forgot about it however, after re-reading the series and then writing 'Nocturne', the idea of a dark!Minerva has refused to go away henceforth, I thought I would post this and see what happened from there.

**Enjoy!**

As for the disclaimer; if I had written the Harry Potter series I would not being writing fanfiction, would I?

**Summary**: Everybody has their limits. Minerva McGonagall is no exception.

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_**Prologue: the Folly of Youth**_

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She was tall, the girl who stood by the window, her skin dancing with the soft light of the moon. Though young, she exuded the arrogance of a pure-blood; with her chin jutted forward and a perpetual smile always playing at the corners of her mouth. She folded her arms across her chest, shivering slightly from the chill wind that blew through the open window, though made no move to assume the black cloak that hung over the edge of the bed. Tom Riddle's mouth tilted in a half curve as he watched her from the bed and he flicked his wand towards the fire grate. Flames burst upward, sending a flare of illumination through the room, but the girl didn't even flinch. She looked over her shoulder, exposing the pale skin of her neck, which descended to slim shoulders.

"Problem, Tom?" she asked with a smirk.

"I thought you might be cold."

She gave a soft laugh and looked forward again. The moon had bleached all colour from the surroundings, throwing the world into shades of grey. His eyes fell on the tattoo on her arm, a copy of his own, and he a smile touched his lips. It was a true masterpiece, and though it had been sheer agony to cast the spell on each other, neither had shied away. The skull and snake design was delicate, though one had to look closely to fully appreciate its intricate nature. They had woven spells into the very ink of the tattoo and these danced to a tune all of their own, taking power from the outside world and instilling it into their master and mistress.

"Minerva, it's nearly winter," Tom said, rising to his feet and taking the robe that had been carelessly flung over the bed head. "Put this on before you freeze."

She rolled her eyes but didn't protest as Tom draped the robe around her and she silently shrugged the black material over her shoulders as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Did you find the book?" he whispered into her neck.

Minerva laughed again; it was strangely high-pitched, much like his own, and he couldn't help but give another smile.

"Of course," she said, tilting her head slightly to the side as he rested his chin on her shoulder. "Slughorn was all-too-happy to sign the permission slip."

He inwardly smirked; he would bet a large amount of money that Slughorn would do anything Minerva wanted. He was far more … interested in her than a Professor should be. Something Minerva took full advantage of, coaxing information from the Potions Master as easily as if she had administered veritaserum.

"Where is it?" he asked.

She turned and looked upward at him; though tall for a woman, he nevertheless topped her by several inches and she tapped him on the chest, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"It's really not that interesting," she teased even as he frowned.

"Minerva…" he warned.

She stepped back and pointed in the direction of her satchel which had also been unceremoniously thrown next to her robe. "In there," she said, stepping back and making her way to the bed. "But there isn't anything in there that we don't already know."

Tom, who was rifling through the satchel, looked towards her as she sat down in the centre of the mattress and crossed her legs. He had come to recognize that tone – a combination of brashness and surety – and he found himself not doubting for a second that she was right. There were many reasons he 'cavorted' with this particular Gryffindor, namely intelligence and a hidden cruelness he found especially intriguing.

"I think that splitting your soul into seven parts would be the most effective," she continued, arching her back.

"Do you now?" Tom said with raised eyebrows, his long fingers curling around the spine of the book.

"Yes," Minerva said with a nod. "And once you've read that you'll agree with me."

He took out the book and frowned at the cover before flicking it open. Diagrams, most depicting wizards and witches in varying degrees of agony, were frequent but he stopped when he reached one of last chapters of the book. One word – which he had become increasingly enamored with over the past year – glared up at him.

_Horcrux._

He looked to Minerva whose mouth was curved in its familiar mocking half-smile.

"You're brilliant," he admitted.

"Oh, I know," she said, her smirk widening even as she waved her hand in feigned nonchalance. "Believe me, I know."

She laughed and after a moment he joined her and the sound echoed around the room. A sound filled with mirth and a slight hint of danger.


End file.
